After the Storm
by OmegaCrusader
Summary: The Origami Killer has been killed. Ethan Mars has rescued his son. He can have a fresh new start with Madison Paige now. But what about Norman Jayden? See what happens to our favorite FBI investigator after the events of Heavy Rain.


**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Heavy Rain, Norman Jayden, etc ...**

When I played Heavy Rain, I was heavily involved with Mass Effect 2 at the time.

I swore I wouldn't let my loyalties change.

I swore I wouldn't write any Heavy Rain fanfiction.

This is what happened.

Perhaps this'll simply be a one-shot. But considering making it more.

* * *

**_After the Storm_**

_In This State of Mind_

His hand flicked to the left, brushing all the holograms aside.

"Let's see ... well, nothing left to work on. Looks like it's time to get moving again."

FBI investigator Norman Jayden raised a trembling hand and took off his ARI glasses, setting them down on the desk and removing his glove, the vibrant glare of the virtual sun amidst the imitation clouds and the splashing and rushing of the simulated waterfall instantly replaced by the dull, dreary office setting and constant humming of the overhead fluorescent lights. He needed more information. It was yet another day of hunting down leads, cracking the big cases, putting the more notable criminals in their places...

The ARI was the thing here; the Added Reality Interface really helped out, providing him with a direct, constant link to the FBI database, helping him analyze a variety of evidence, storing it, and so on. The only bad thing was that he had to take 'you-know-what', and Norman hadn't felt its snares coming back for a while already... But ... but why ... why were his hands ... _shaking?_

_ Oh no._

It was coming back.

He knew it when he felt the sudden rush in his head, the throbbing pain in his body, his hands _trembling like mad_ –

'_Just take it,' _a dreamy, reassuring voice seemed to murmur somewhere in the back of his mind. _'Take the tripto, and the pain'll go away ...'_

"No! I thought ... I thought I had ... gotten rid ... of it ..."

_'You didn't, Norman. It's all coming back now, huh?'_

"No ... can't ... think ... the ARI ..."

_'Do you want to live the rest of your life like this? Suffering from the withdrawal? It won't hurt one bit ... just take the triptocaine ... it's in your pocket, it's always in your pocket, just in case ...'_

Yes. That was it. He had to take another dose ... just one more...

He couldn't stop himself. He felt his shaking hand reaching into the pocket of his coat, pulling out the little blue vial...

_'Just one dose ... What could be the harm?'_

_ Stop it, _another part of his mind said, barely audible but firm. _Throw it, throw it away!_

"Th – throw ... throw it ... away ..."

His hand clenched around the vial of triptocaine. He felt the vial being lifted up in front of his face, just so that he could see it. The edges of his vision were pulsing, his head throbbing, unable to control the hand that began to snap off the lid of the vial...

_STOP!!!_

The withdrawal effects were ensnaring him. He tried hard not to throw up, feeling the conflict, the indecision, the pain, the _need..._

Norman lurched off his seat, almost falling to the ground, managing to land on one knee as his left hand caught on the edge of his desk, but the vial of triptocaine fell out of his shaking hand and skittered across the ground.

An instinctive part of him threw himself after the vial, whether out of a desire to simply get rid of it or if it was the triptocaine addict within him that desperately needed another dose...

_It has to end. I know it's hard, but just throw it away. Get rid of it. It's not worth your life, Norman._

"Get ... rid of it ..." he repeated, his words slurred. "Not ... worth ... my life ..."

He found his footing. He stood up, movements jerky and stiff, but at least he was moving. And in the right direction.

He'd reached the door. He put the triptocaine vial back into his pocket. He opened the door and made a break for the men's restroom.

It was a damn good thing that barely anybody was out in the hallway right now. Otherwise, they would've asked questions.

Norman managed to make it to the restroom door when he suddenly collapsed, his legs falling from underneath him.

His arms strained to push himself back up to his feet, but the pain was too much. He'd pass out, and somebody would probably find him here hours later, they'd question him, he'd probably _lose his badge_...

A sudden burst of strength allowed him to jump to his feet, and he didn't waste any time rushing into the restroom and locking himself in the nearest stall.

He collapsed with finality in there. His hands gripped the toilet seat as he straightened his posture, trying to get back up. The most he could do was get into a kneeling position.

The part of his mind that was tenaciously persuading him to simply snap off the lid of the blue vial, to inhale its contents, and make the pain go away, was losing its resolve. He didn't waste any more time.

He grabbed the vial. He dropped it into the toilet. He got to his feet and flushed the toilet.

Several moments of blank, empty, hollow silence passed. Then a sudden rush overtook him.

It was as though a great burden had been relieved from his shoulders. Norman took several deep breaths, leaning slightly against the stall wall, feeling the pain lessening.

Gone. The desire for triptocaine was gone. At least for the moment.

"Gonna have to either get rid of it one day," Norman said, unlocking the stall door, walking outside. "Or let it get rid of me."

But at least he'd live to fight another day.


End file.
